


Between the Acts

by rilina



Series: Between the Acts [1]
Category: Gundam SEED
Genre: Between Series, Character Study, F/M, Gift Fic, POV Minor Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-21
Updated: 2008-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rilina/pseuds/rilina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Bloody Valentine War, Miriallia's life goes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Acts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Edonohana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edonohana/gifts).



> Spoilers for all of _Gundam Seed_ and for some early events in _Gundam Seed Destiny_. Written for edonohana, who is a hero of the revolution. It's probably not the Gundam fic you wanted, but it's what I managed to write. Alas, I could not keep out _Destiny_ spoilers, but at least they aren't series-ruining ones?

The first year of peace is the hardest. Even before the treaty is signed, the Archangel vanishes from the public eye and descends back to Earth, where it seeks harbor in the ruins of Morgenroete's operations. Though the fighting is over, the majority of the crew still finds itself at loose ends; after everything that's happened, returning to the Earth Alliance is not an option. Most simply take up new identities and disappear into Orb's crowds. In the chaos of reconstruction, no one notices a few unfamiliar faces.

For Miriallia, it's different. Orb is home, after all, and she's reunited with her parents within days of disembarking from the Archangel. They cluck over all the terrible things she's seen and bring her back to the modest home where they raised her. The bungalow is far enough from the coasts and major cities that it suffered no damage during the war; indeed, almost nothing has changed since Miriallia last saw it. In her bedroom she finds all the things she left behind when she started college at Heliopolis. Childhood books, some extra clothes, a row of stuffed animals arranged on her dresser. Only the snapshot of Tolle tucked into the corner of her mirror keeps it from feeling entirely like the room of a stranger.

She doesn't want to wear the brightly colored dresses in the closet, or sleep in the soft comforter-covered bed. But she does, of course, because there's nowhere else for her to go. And when she weeps in the middle of the night--sometimes for Tolle, and sometimes just for herself--she makes sure she pulls her covers over her head, so her parents don't hear. The peace may be breaking her more than the war did, but there's no reason for anyone else to know that's the case.

* * *

Dearka calls a few days later, when she's out running an errand at the store. Her parents pass along his message with only mild curiosity; she lets them think she knows him from Heliopolis. She only hesitates for a moment before returning his call and agreeing to see him. It's a reason to get out of the house, and at the moment, that's what she wants most.

The city has more reminders of the war, but it also offers more distractions from the awkward peace. Dearka meets her train at the station, and they buy two coffees from a stand there before finding a quiet bench on the waterfront to sit and talk. Their seats face away from the city and toward the open sea, and for the first time since coming home, Miriallia feels like she can hear herself think.

"I'm surprised you're still in Orb," she tells him. "I thought you'd be in a hurry to return to the PLANTs."

He makes a face. "Easier said than done. ZAFT can't decide whether I'm a prisoner-of-war or a traitor, and that's complicating things. Orb won't send me back without a guarantee that I won't be, well, you know. The politicians will hash it out, with all the other minor details."

"Do your parents know you're okay?"

"They ought to. They're two of the politicians."

"Oh." She forgets sometimes that he was born into the PLANTs' elite; even if there had been no war, he would never have led what she considers a normal life. "And what about Athrun?"

"He's not going back. Can't and won't, really. You should have heard the tantrum that Yzak threw when he found out." Dearka crumples his empty coffee cup in his brown hands, then changes the subject. "Have you been okay?"

"It's not easy getting used to being back. My mother doesn't like to let me out of her sight. She sent me away to school, and I ended up in the Earth Alliance. She still hasn't quite gotten over that. My father thinks I should go back to college in January. Most of the local ones are offering transfers to students from Heliopolis."

"Is that what you want?"

"I don't know. But I guess it's better than doing nothing. You know, the only nice thing about fighting for your life is that no one really expects you to plan much beyond that." Miriallia leans back on her hands and closes her eyes, concentrates on the feeling of sun on her skin. She'd missed that when the Archangel was in space; it's one of few uncomplicatedly good things about being in Orb. Dearka says nothing. Eventually she asks him, "Why do you want to go back?"

"It's home. Orb isn't. Even if Coordinators and Naturals can live together here, I don't belong."

She manages a bitter smile. "I guess that makes two of us."

* * *

Tolle's parents always liked Miriallia, so she's not surprised when they ask her to help with the arrangements for his memorial service. The details of his war record are classified, but she tells them what she can. She's glad that she's not allowed to say more. Telling them Athrun's name wouldn't make things any better, and it would almost certainly make things worse.

At the service she's treated with only slightly less deference than Tolle's parents. _The poor girl,_ she overhears again and again. _So young._ Tolle's elderly aunts kiss her cheeks, and his younger cousins give her hugs; their former classmates greet her with distant respect, as if she's no longer one of their peers.

Sai attends with his family. He lingers near the door until he finds a moment to speak with her privately. His eyes are shadowed, and Miriallia wonders when he last got a good night's sleep. "I'm starting classes again in January at the city college," he says. "My parents set it up."

"My father wants to do the same," she tells him, because it's easier than explaining why she doesn't want to go. "Maybe I'll see you there?"

"I'd like that," he says. "Like old times." His eyes grow a little distant, and she knows he's thinking about Flay.

Miriallia hasn't mourned much for Flay. She feels guilty about it, but she knows her refusal to think about Flay's death is one of the things that's allowed her to keep functioning. "Have you heard from Kuzzey?"

Sai shakes his head. Miriallia's not surprised; she hasn't either. "You better not disappear on me, too. Keep in touch, Sai."

"I will," he answers. "It's a promise."

Later, when she's home again, she realizes that she's feeling a lot more than grief for Tolle, and Flay, and everyone else who didn't survive the war. She's also furious. It's different from the rage that once drove her to attack Dearka; it's colder, more rational, born from the realization that she'll never have the luxury of forgetting her first love. Some part of her will always have to mourn Tolle just because she was his girlfriend when he climbed into a machine he couldn't really fly and got himself killed for his pains.

She is sixteen, and she might as well be a widow.

Miriallia doesn't know what she hates more: the war, for twisting her memories of Tolle, or herself, for wishing she could be free of them.

* * *

"I'm going back to school in January after all," she tells Dearka the next time they meet.

He arches an eyebrow. "You didn't seem that enthusiastic about it the last time I saw you."

"I'm not. But it's something to do."

"Yeah, I understand." And of course he does. He's a pilot without a mobile suit, a soldier without a war, grounded in Orb for one month and counting. "What were you studying, anyway?"

"Robotics." She snickers a little at his obvious surprise. "It was a technical college, Dearka."

"No wonder you were such a favorite with Chief Murdoch. So what are you going to do when you're done? Work as an engineer?"

"No, that doesn't really appeal to me anymore. I think--I think I want to travel. See the world. Because I really didn't see much of it during the war, despite all the places we went."

"You could see more. There are the PLANTs too."

She thinks of the pictures she's seen in her textbooks of the hourglass-shaped colonies, their streets filled with people who are smarter and stronger and more skilled than she'll ever be.

She says, "We're going to miss our movie if we don't get going."

Dearka lets the subject drop. Miriallia supposes her evasion has been answer enough.

* * *

It's a relief to move out of her parents' house and into a tiny apartment in the city, just a few blocks from campus. The rent isn't cheap, but the apartment saves her from long rides on the commuter train, back and forth. And most importantly, it's a space of her own, entirely private, where she doesn't have to pretend that the war hasn't changed her.

Her plan is simple: to finish her degree and to get out. She abandons her plans for a robotics degree and decides to pursue a general studies degree instead; she only needs a handful of credits to complete it, and with an extra class she can do that in a single term. Her final schedule--Art History, Orb Literature, Developmental Psychology, Introductory Korean, Basic Photography--isn't exactly a coherent program of study, but it fills up her days and allows her to graduate with a minimum of fuss.

Sai also registers at the city college, and for a couple days, Miriallia manages to convince herself that he won't have a nervous breakdown. But he only lasts two weeks before his roommates stage an intervention. The doctors at the student clinic take one look at him before sending him home for the remainder of the term. "Sorry, Miri," he says when she visits him at the clinic, a day before his parents arrive to pick him up. "You'll be on your own here for a while."

"You worry about getting better," she tells him, trying not to look at the shadows under his eyes or the IV feed snaking into his arm. "I'll be fine." And to her surprise, those words turn out not to be a lie. She manages perfectly well, despite her heavy courseload and general apathy. Perhaps it's because she doesn't have the distractions of a social life or clubs; she knows very few of her classmates, save a few other transfers from her school in Heliopolis, and she's lost all interest in extracurricular activities. Or perhaps it's because she's now willing to scrape by with mediocre grades, when once she used to struggle to pass high. "Good enough" becomes her new motto.

Not all her grades are mediocre, though. It soon becomes apparent that she has a talent for photography. "You should really be in the intermediate or advanced class, Miss Haw," her photography professor tells her. "You won't be challenged much here."

"I'd never studied it formally before--"

"Yes, I understand. Look, I want to you to take this," the professor says, handing her a data stick. "It's the entry form for a photo contest being held by _The Orb Sentinel._ A good showing on your part would open up a lot of doors."

"I'll keep it in mind, ma'am."

"You do that."

* * *

When February comes, Dearka is still waiting to be repatriated, because ZAFT's ever-shifting leadership can't decide whether it's willing to welcome him back. "What if the answer's no?" Miriallia asks him. "What if you can't go back?"

He shrugs. She realizes he refuses to believe that could happen; it's the only reason he can be calm about his situation. She doesn't press him further.

She sees Dearka more often now that she's living in the city; he's still boarding in the room that the Orb government's provided, pending his transfer home. Miriallia doesn't notice quite how much time they spend together until one of her classmates surprises her by making a passing reference to a boyfriend. It takes Miriallia a moment to remember that this particular girl never knew Tolle. "Sorry, what did you just say?"

"That you probably have plans with your boyfriend. But if you don't, you should come to our study group. We're meeting at the library at seven." A pause. "Have I made a mistake? The blond guy who waits for you after class some days?"

"Oh, him." Miriallia decides that it's probably pointless to try to explain. The girl seems like the sort who sees romance in every platonic friendship, and no explanation Miriallia could give would make any sense, given how many of the pertinent details are classified. "Thanks for the offer, but I promised my parents I'd visit this weekend. Maybe next time?"

"Definitely. I'll send you a copy of our study notes."

"I appreciate it."

She gives Dearka the same excuse when he calls to ask if she's free on Saturday. He takes her answer in stride. "I'll see you when you get back then," he says. "Have a safe trip." She finds herself smiling at him as he says goodbye and cuts the connection, and she realizes that her classmate's assumptions might as well be true, even if they aren't yet.

When he kisses her for the first time, a week later, it's easy to let him.

It's even easier not to think too much about it and to let it happen again.

* * *

She's leaving her psychology lecture one morning when she sees an unexpected person waiting in the hallway. Captain Ramius has only changed a little since Miriallia last saw her, the day the Archangel's crew scattered to their new lives. Ramius's hair is a little longer; her face a bit more tanned; and in place of her old Earth Alliance uniform she wears a standard Morgenroete jumpsuit. She looks entirely at ease in her civilian clothes, and if she's still grieving for Lieutenant La Flaga, she's learned how to hide her devastation in the months since the fighting ended. When she sees Miriallia, her face brightens, and she raises her hand in a half-wave--_Come over_\--that destroys Miriallia's vague hope that the captain's appearance is some sort of bizarre coincidence.

The hallway's flooded with students leaving lecture halls in search of lunch, and it takes Miriallia a while to shoulder her way through the crowd to the place where Ramius waits. "This is a surprise," she says carefully. She quickly looks for the name on the identification badge clipped to Ramius's collar. "What are you doing here, Maria?"

Ramius smiles. "Do I need a reason to take my cousin out to lunch? I thought that college students were always grateful for free food."

"Some warning would have been nice."

"Oh, but that would have ruined the surprise."

"So this is just a friendly visit? Nothing's wrong at home?"

"At home? Ah, no. There's been an amazing lack of family drama. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. But come with me--we can talk better elsewhere. I know a good place."

She leads Miriallia off campus, and the crowds thin quickly as they get away from the block of cheap sandwich shops and noodle stands catering to busy students. A few minutes walk brings them to a quiet bistro on a side street, with outdoor seating and a forest green awning. It's the sort of place that Miriallia would take her parents if they visited, and not somewhere she would ever go on her own.

The host turns out to be another veteran of the Archangel, and he winks at Miriallia as he seats them in an empty corner with a good view of all the entrances. The two women place their orders, and when the server is finally out of earshot, Ramius says, "As you've probably noticed, this place is owned by some friends of the family. It's safe to talk here. No one's going to listen in to any conversations here without several former communications officers finding out."

"So there's really nothing wrong? It's not Kira, is it?"

"Kira? He's safe. I had a note from him and Miss Lacus a few days ago. No, actually we were all worried about you, Miriallia. You haven't been in contact with anyone since we returned to Orb."

"Me? I'm fine. I'm sorry I just--I just I didn't think I was still your concern."

Ramius looks hurt. "We may not be soldiers anymore, but we're still friends, aren't we? Even if you were Kira's friend first, you were a part of the crew as much as anyone else. You know that, right?"

"I guess I do."

"Good. Then don't be a stranger, Miriallia Haw. That's an order, even if I have no right to give them anymore." Ramius's voice is playful, but her eyes are serious.

"I won't." Miriallia thinks of Sai, convalescing at home; of Kuzzey, who won't return anyone's calls; and of Kira, in hiding. But she also remembers the others from the Archangel, from the guys in the CIC to the chief and his crew, and she realizes she has been worried about them without knowing it. "I did miss everyone. You'll tell them for me, right?"

"You can tell them yourself, missy."

Their food arrives soon after, and the conversation moves to easier topics.

Miriallia learns that several crew members are working at Morgenroete with Ramius; others have landed on their feet elsewhere. In return, Miriallia tells Ramius about her classes and her new interest in photography.

At the end of the meal, Miriallia checks her watch and says apologetically, "I have to get to my afternoon class."

"Of course." Ramius stands up and gives her a hug before she leaves. Miriallia feels something slide into her jacket pocket. "Remember what we talked about."

"I will."

Ramius's parting gift turns out to be a data stick that holds a single text file. In a few brief lines, the file outlines three communication protocols, to be used as needed. Miriallia wonders why Ramius felt such a thing was necessary; surely it would be easy enough to get a message to "Maria Bernes" at Morgenroete, should the need ever arise. Nevertheless, Miriallia commits the information to memory anyway before deleting the file and erasing all of its traces.

* * *

Miriallia sleeps with Dearka on just one occasion, one day after the Treaty of Junius formally ends the war and two days before he finally returns to ZAFT. At first it's simple to act on long-simmering attraction, to extend an invitation, to lead him into her small apartment. But once she closes the door behind them, it's impossible to ignore all the history that's between them.

It shows itself in small ways. In their awkwardness, despite their mutual prior experience; in their silence, because there's so much that's unsafe to say. And most of all it's evident in Dearka's gentleness, the way his hands are almost polite as he touches her. It reminds Miriallia of Tolle, but of course there's no way she can explain that. So she settles for being fierce enough for both of them, scoring angry red lines on his back with her nails, and in the end, that strategy's only partly satisfactory.

Afterward she pulls away and buries her face in her pillows. They smell faintly of laundry detergent, sweat, and her favorite shampoo. She's slightly relieved that she and Dearka are no longer touching, but she's still glad that he seems to be in no hurry to leave. She thinks he's sleeping until he rolls onto his back and says, "What are we doing?"

The question's almost a sigh, probably directed to the ceiling as much as it is to her, but she answers anyway. "I don't know."

When she reaches out to take his hand, she finds it warm and waiting.

* * *

Her photograph of a combat zone awaiting reconstruction takes second place in _The Orb Sentinel_ contest. There are no cash prizes for the runners up, but the exposure still brings her three separate offers for post-graduation freelance work, including one from _The Sentinel_ itself. Miriallia dutifully mentions the contest and Dearka's departure in her next message to "Cousin Maria", though she suspects that Ramius already knows of both events. The captain, she's already discovered, is eerily well-informed about the movements of her former crew.

A couple of weeks later, Miriallia runs into Chief Murdoch at the dedication of a modest war memorial on the southern coast of Onogoro Island. It's her first official assignment for _The Sentinel;_ she doesn't know why Murdoch is there, but it seems rude to ask. When he sees her, he casts a friendly arm around her shoulders and says, "Congratulations, missy. I think you should have been first."

So does Miriallia, but she's been raised too politely to say so. "I got freelance work out of it anyway, so that's good enough for me. That's why I'm here, in fact."

"Oh? Very impressive. You still letting that Elsman kid hang around? How's he doing?"

"He's gone back home, Chief. ZAFT took away his red uniform though."

"Ha! Bet he's not too happy about that."

"No, I don't think he is."

* * *

_\--As expected, they're letting me live._

Dearka's messages from the PLANTs are text-only and terse. Miriallia wonders why he avoids the vidphone; it's not as if he's camera shy, given that he's one of the vainest people she's ever known. She wonders if it's a ZAFT thing; perhaps soldiers on active duty don't have access to vidphones. She doesn't ask, and he never volunteers an explanation.

_\--I've been assigned to Yzak's team of all things. I'm not sure whether they expect him to keep me in line or vice versa._

In the beginning she responds quickly, but it's not long before she runs out of things to say, before she begins to ask herself why she's corresponding with a ZAFT soldier anyway. Still, even after her replies trail off, his messages keep coming, and Miriallia begins to dread the beep announcing their arrival in her inbox.

He never asks her directly why she's stopped writing, but she can tell that he's noticed when his messages become stiff and painfully polite.

_\--I look forward to hearing from you._

_\--I hope you're still well._

His last message is just one word long.

_\--Miriallia?_

She waits a few days before sending the answer she'd composed in her head when she first stopped replying.

_\--I'm sorry, but I'd like you to stop contacting me._

It's a message that invites a response, if only a complaint against its unfairness, but Dearka sends none. How entirely typical, Miriallia thinks. Dearka's always been too ready to abide by her wishes. And that's the problem with a relationship that started with his fumbling attempts to make amends--there was no way it could have ever been equal.

Sometimes she misses him. But more often, she just glories in being unattached and free.

* * *

Grades are posted a few days after the end of the term. When Miriallia's last one comes through, she sits down at her vidphone and enters one of the numbers she'd memorized months earlier. It connects her to the bistro where she and Ramius once ate lunch. "I'd like to make a dinner reservation," she tells the unknown woman on the other end of the line. "Tomorrow night, for two, at 20:00."

"What name?"

"Miriallia Haw. And my guest, Maria Bernes."

"Very well, madam. We look forward to seeing you."

But when Miriallia arrives at the restaurant the next evening, she finds two people waiting for her at the corner table. "I don't remember inviting you," she tells Andrew Waltfeld. "But I suppose it's just as well that you're here anyway."

He laughs. "Good to see you again, Miss Haw. And congratulations. You're officially done?"

"Yes. Though I'm skipping the actual ceremony. I leave tomorrow night for Gibraltar, on an assignment for _The Sentinel._ Now that I'm no longer a student, they want to send me on international assignments."

"That's wonderful," Ramius says.

Miriallia goes on. "And that set me to thinking about what I could do. My job makes me useful. A newspaper photographer can go a lot of places that other people can't."

"That's true," Waltfeld says. "But if you mean what I think you mean--are you sure that you want to involve yourself in this again?"

Ramius adds, "It's not something you have to do to be our friend."

"But this is different," Miriallia says. She looks down at her fingers, which are drumming a beat on the tablecloth, as she tries to find the right words. "I'm choosing this. Not because I'm already mixed up in it, and not because everyone else is doing it. This is something I want to do, because it's important to me. And this is something only I _can_ do."

They are too willing to be persuaded of her conviction and sincerity, and that speaks as much as anything else to the small chances of the current peace enduring. If Ramius and Waltfeld are already making plans for various contingencies, it's because they expect another war, probably sooner rather than later. One way or another, they are preparing to be needed.

So is Miriallia.

When she leaves for Gibraltar, it's as a full-fledged operative of the independent information network known as Terminal.

* * *

She travels light. During the war she learned to make do with very little; when Flay was asking Kira to find her favorite brands of face cream and shampoo, Miriallia was managing with standard Earth Alliance goo. Now her camera equipment takes up more space than her personal items in her luggage; she can pack for a month-long trip in under fifteen minutes. And as she goes from city to city, she picks up curses in three new languages, learns to haggle, and runs through countless memory chips for her camera of choice.

Her photographs attract some attention, and other newspapers begin to offer her work. She's constantly on the move, jumping from one assignment to the next, and she always finds a reason not to go home. Before she knows it, she's been away from Orb for most of a year.

She's in Nairobi, taking pictures of the latest election, when the first warnings about Junius Seven commandeer the airwaves. And like every other guest at her hotel, she's crowded around the lobby's big-screen television when it becomes clear that nothing can be done to prevent a disaster.

_So it begins,_ she thinks. She turns away from the screen, pushes her way out of the horrified crowd, and heads back to her room to pack. She's zipping up her bag when her phone flashes with an incoming call.

She answers before the second ring.

"How soon can you be ready?" Murrue Ramius asks.

"Good news," Miriallia answers. "I already am."


End file.
